


Calm Like A Bomb

by MortalThread



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Forensics are hard, M/M, POV Alternating, Past Child Abuse, Six Times Fic, Slow Burn, Smoking, everything is hard, relationships are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27789346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortalThread/pseuds/MortalThread
Summary: Nick calms Greg down. Greg calms Nick down. This is how it's always been.A six times fic.
Relationships: Greg Sanders/Nick Stokes
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41





	Calm Like A Bomb

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from Rage Against the Machine. I think they'd be proud of that. 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely flowersonmymind! Thank you so much, my dear!

**_2004_ **

__

Blood.

Smoke.

Human flesh.

The world spins and Greg Sanders is down on his hands and knees, retching for all he’s worth into the hedges by the stone patio. His hearing short circuits, that muted underwater sound replacing it. He shrugs off a hand on his shoulder violently as he lurches again, forehead brushing dead leaves and branches. Acid races up his throat, splattering into the dirt and he lifts a shaking hand to mouth, eyes screwing shut.

A voice is behind him, female, low.

Sara.

A gloved hand in hair sends him spinning again and he tilts. Something catches him, something warm. Solid. A body. He inhales sharply, swallowing down the next wave of nausea as he’s bodily picked up off the ground.

“I got him, go…”

Ungloved hands are wrapped evenly around both his arms, and he refuses to open his eyes. The Las Vegas sun paints red against the inside of his eyelids. He’s frog-walked away from the bushes, and he flaps a hand back toward them.

“Bushes were already dead. You didn’t do them any harm, G, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Nick.

Greg squawks a hysterical laugh, then immediately clamps his teeth shut as the nausea fights back. He cracks open an eye, feels the hands around his arms tighten, and then he’s moving again. He’s shuffled into a sitting position on something hard, and the underwater sound gets sharper. He takes in another pull of air, feels it catch, lets out some kind of noise he isn’t aware he’s capable of making.

“All right, kiddo. Breathe.” The hands snake up to his neck, warm against his own skin, tilting his head side to side as he slams his eyes shut again. “Greg?”

Nick. All swagger and easy drawl. Hands still against his neck, two fingers lit gently onto the carotid pulse in his neck.

He tries.

Inhale…

Nope.

He chokes again, pushing at the hands and Nick pushes back. The hands leave his neck to corral his arms, grabbing them easily and placing them against his own jean-clad legs.

“Hey, Greg? I need you to breathe.”

He shakes his head, makes another one of those pathetic noises. There’s a huff of breath against his forehead. Greg lets his eyes adjust, the world tilting as Nick raises himself up onto his knees in front of him. The nausea threatens again, and he guesses he gags because Nick is immediately leaning back.

“I’ll be impressed if you puke again because I honestly didn’t think you had anything left.”

His body decides it wants to lean again, and then the hands are back, grabbing him and pulling him upright.

“Dizzy?”

He thinks he can manage a nod. Thinks he does, because Nick’s next move is to place a hand on the back of his neck, slipping in the sweat accumulating. His other hand goes to his shoulder, pulling him down.

“Head down, buddy. Between your knees. That’s it.”

Sara’s voice filters in between that underwater thing and then Greg’s staring at denim close up, threading his hands through his own hair, bracketing his head. Nick answers her quietly. The shift of light alerts Greg to another presence, and another male voice joins.

Grissom.

“Panic attack,” Nick is saying.

Greg huffs against his knees, shivering suddenly in the oppressive Vegas heat. The hands return to him, rubbing up and down his arms. A third hand appears, on his shoulder. It’s a brief, light touch. The barest of squeezes, and then it’s gone.

The light shifts again, and the voices stop. The nausea threatens again, and then finally, blessedly, recedes. There’s an ache in his chest when he takes his first, uninhibited breath and he sighs, grateful, into his knees.

“You comin’ down?” 

He offers Nick a noise in response, and Nick’s hands drop from his arms. Greg goes cold for a moment until one returns to rub gently at the back of his neck.

“You know, my first case? As a CSI? Grissom threw me under the bus. Hardcore.” There’s a shift of jeans on concrete. The hand never moves. When Greg lifts his head an inch, Nick’s moving to sit cross-legged in front of him. “Quad. Hatchet murders. Blood everywhere. They’d been dead for days. Decomp was so bad. I had no warning, whatsoever.”

Greg gags. The hand on his neck squeezes lightly.

“Sorry, sorry. But…it was awful, man.” His voice goes soft. “Two kids. Anyway, I ended up a little like how you are right now. Head in a remains bucket, outside, sitting the same way you are.”

The underwater noise ebbs and Greg shivers as the panic begins to die down.

“I almost thought about quitting. You know what he did?” Greg shakes his head, feeling the world spin again. He reaches out, finding purchase on one of Nick’s shoulders, steadying himself. “Grissom made me go to every autopsy that came in for the next three days until I got used to the smell.”

Greg makes a low noise and Nick gives a quick laugh.

“Kinda fucked up, right?” He sighs. “But cured me right away. I mean, look, I’d seen my share of dead bodies in Dallas, but this was…a whole new ballgame. Seeing them in situ was totally different. And for some reason, that first scene…set me off. Really bad.”

There’s more shuffling, he clears his throat.

“I’m saying I’ve been here. Nobody knows how they’ll react to their first real bad scene, and I’ve been exactly where you’ve been.”

Greg opens his mouth, waits to see if he’s going to hurl again, and then licks his lips. His mouth is gross, the aftertaste making him wince.

His voice is a rasp when he finds it. “How long…how long did it last?”

There’s a shadow cast over him and Greg raises his eyes, finds Nick tilting his head down, trying to see his face.

“About a half-hour or so. Kinda shaky the rest of the day. Threw up a coupla times.” His eyes wander back toward the scene near them. “Couldn’t get it out of my head for a long time, though.”

Greg turns his head, seeing the tan clad legs of officers near the gates to the backyard. Nick’s hand is still on his neck, still staring where Greg’s looking. Greg feels his thumb moving, rubbing against his skin.

“And I do _not_ blame you for the meltdown at this scene. Family barbecue turning into a literal barbecue? Jesus.”

Greg lets his hand finally drop from his hair, landing in a heap across his lap. Muscles protest as he rights himself, Nick’s hand a steadying weight. He spots officers looking at him while talking and a flush starts to work his way up his neck.

“Shit,” he mumbles, rubbing at his face.

The world is in sharp focus now, the spinning and tilting and whirling has stopped. Birds are chirping, the smell of smoke still acrid in the air. It’s a weird juxtaposition, and Greg feels another bubble of hysterical laughter.

Nick shifts again, reseating himself. His gaze has followed Greg’s from the scene to the officers nodding at them. Greg watches him lift a hand and give a short wave and a smile. When he turns back, he’s rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, I see ‘em. These guys are gonna talk a lot of shit about what happened here today. You need to ignore it.”

“I’m going to be a joke.”

The grip on his neck tightens and when Greg finds Nick’s face again, his lips are set into a thin line, eyes tight.

“No, no you won’t be.” He rolls his eyes up for a moment, tugs at the brim of the ballcap. “Okay, so maybe for like a week. But, here’s the deal: you’re going to get up. And you’re going to stay with me. And if they say anything within earshot, I’m going to knock the dental work clean outta their mouths.”

Greg snorts. He’s suddenly tired. Wiped, even. Nick seems to catch on, moving the hand on his neck down to his back. He rubs in long sweeps, tilting his head down to catch his eyes.

“Hey, look at me.” Greg finds bright brown eyes and a serious look. “I _know_ you can do this. I’ve seen what you can do in the lab. Hell, I can’t even pronounce half the machines in there, or the processes, or _words,_ or…”

He trails off, dimples showing as he smiles. He shuts his eyes. “What I’m saying is, you’ve got this. You can do this. Griss doesn’t allow just anyone to join the team. If we didn’t think you were capable, you wouldn’t be sitting here with your head between your knees right now.”

“But I _am_ sitting here with my head between my knees.”

Nick’s smile only gets wider as he opens his eyes. “Exactly. How about this: you help me today, and I’ll tell you _all_ about Warrick’s first scene. It involved clowns.”

Greg shudders, finding his lips twitching into a weak smile, and then he’s glancing back toward the crime scene. Nick’s still rubbing his back, and he blanches when he realizes his own hand hasn’t left Nick’s shoulder. He pulls it back tentatively before using both hands to rub his face. The hand on his back stays as he makes to stand, swaying shortly before settling. He wipes at his mouth, checks his shirt, hands still shaking. Nick presses a hand to the small of Greg’s back and they start moving toward the gate. Greg steels himself, shutting his eyes.

“The clown thing better be good.”

Nick hums. “Oh man, it’s a doozy. He refuses to talk about it.”

Greg twists, stopping Nick with a hand to his shoulder. 

“Hey. Thank you.”

Nick shrugs, still grinning. “For what?”

Greg only shakes his head, grinning shyly, and moves past the gate.

**_2005_ **

__

Nick keeps his head down, feeling his skin hot and tight against his bones. He’s trying in vain to control whatever breaths he can keep as he bustles past coworkers. He shoulders an intern, murmuring an apology through gritted teeth. He barely acknowledges Grissom and Warrick, locked in conversation outside of Grissom’s office. He can feel their eyes on his back as he sweeps around a corner, his destination in sight.

The gleam of fluorescent lights off of Ecklie’s bald head has him making a noise and he gives him a short nod when their eyes meet. The supervisor offers a leery smirk.

“Stokes.”

“Sir.”

He heaves a breath as they pass without incident, ships in the night. Nick spares a glance at Ecklie’s retreating back before he reaches the door he’s been looking for. He presses his forehead against the cool frosted window glass, taking in several shuddering breaths. He grips the handle, metal cold against his palm. He takes a final gasping breath before pushing it open.

Shutting it quietly behind him, he tosses his bag onto the wooden bench. He leans back against the door, shutting his eyes and tilting his head back against it. He exhales slowly, bits and flashes of memories worming their way to the surface before sinking back down again. He rubs at his face, grunting.

He waits a minute, footsteps passing by the door behind him. The fading light of the early evening filters through the locker room’s only window. The tightness to his skin has given way to faint tingling, and he rubs fingertips against his cheeks, feeling his jaw locked. He breathes in sharply, taking a shaky step, then another, toward his locker. He slips a finger into the hole on the pull, yanking it open easily. He musses his hair, leaning into the darkness the inside of the locker affords him.

“Everything okay?”

He whirls, heart in his throat, hand hitting the inside of the locker with the dull smack. Greg appears in his view, standing near the sink area behind the lockers. A white stick hangs from the corner of his mouth. A toothbrush, Nick realizes, when he spots flecks of white foam situated on his chin and near his cheek. Greg must be in the middle of a double shift. He sighs, nodding quickly.

His hand throbs and he shakes it out before cradling it absently.

“Yeah, fine.”

His voice is barely a rasp, edgy, clipped. Absolute betrayal.

He waits, not moving, until Greg gives him a slow head tilt, eyes narrowing. Nick swallows, holding his gaze over Greg’s shoulder steady until the younger man finally turns on a heel and heads back behind the lockers. The spigot turns on, and Nick faces his locker. He gropes behind him, hand finding the soft, familiar leather of his bag. He hugs it to his chest, leaning back into the darkness of the locker.

Minutes, seconds, hours…he isn’t sure, pass by. There’re muted footsteps behind him, another soft question. He’s two seconds from jumping out his skin when a hand lightly touches down on his shoulder and he spins.

“Jesus Christ, Greg!” Greg takes a wide step back, hands up, eyes turned down to the floor. “I said I was fine. Leave it.”

Dark eyes finally tick up to meet his, still in a defensive stance. Nick heaves several breaths, hand fumbling behind him as he drops his bag and grips the metal edges of the locker. They’re at a standstill; Nick’s motionless against the locker and Greg hasn’t moved so much as an eyelash.

“I’ll uh…yeah. Okay.” Slowly, Greg unfurls himself, flush working its way up his neck and Nick feels a sharp stab of guilt. Greg clears his throat, running a hand through his hair and shoving the other nervously into his pocket. “I’ll see you out there.”

He gives him the weakest smile Nick’s ever seen on him.

He doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t have to stare at it for too long, because Greg’s out the door in a flash, closing it quietly behind him. He sags against the locker, sudden exhaustion taking over and he tries composing himself. He slips a hand into the locker, rifling through his shirts. He selects one, slipping out of the one that already smells like sweat and pulling on the new one.

He throws his bag in, grabs his vest, and slams it shut, finally feeling the anxiety dying down. He ruffles his hair again, then counts his paces to the door.

He avoids eyes on him as he makes his way down the corridor to the breakroom. The team is seated around the table, some with coffee, some without. Sara is waving a spoon, yogurt cup in one hand, gap-toothed smile on full display. Catherine is trying to dip her own spoon into the yogurt cup Sara’s waving around, and Nick can’t help but smile.

Warrick mutters something and Grissom turns, giving Nick a long-suffering look. Nick claps Grissom on the shoulder as he enters.

“Nicky! Just in time! First dead hooker of the week!” Catherine crows.

He picks his head up, scanning the room, and finally finds Greg in the corner. He’s alone, quiet, holding a mug. He makes the briefest of eye contact, then buries his head in his coffee.

Nick pastes on a grin. “That can’t be right, Cat. Didn’t we have three last night?”

“No, those were _strippers,_ ” Warrick clarifies as he saunters past him, slapping a slip against his chest. “And you’re with me, pooky.”

“Okay, honeybunch. You’re not driving, though. Nearly got me killed on shift the other night. Again.”

Warrick scoffs, but slips him the keys.

And then they’re off.

The next wave of panic has better timing. They’re coming off the cut and dry case and Nick is beelining it into the locker room, rattling off some pathetic reason. It’s starting to rise in his chest, but he manages to keep his cool until he’s back behind the heavy wooden door. He sits heavily on the bench, face buried in his hands as he tries to control it.

“C’mon, Stokes…pull it together.”

He rocks himself, images of ants and a plexiglass box and green lights and gum in his ears and nose and-

The door opens.

He straightens up, grabbing for his phone in his pocket, a pathetic attempt at trying to make himself look busy. His hands are shaking too badly; he drops it to the floor. He darts to pick it up, catching a glimpse of all too familiar sneakers and dark jeans. The sneakers get closer and then stop beside him. The bench creaks as they sit down. Nick rights himself, shutting his eyes.

“Greg…”

“I…about earlier. Sorry. I shouldn’t have-“ He lets out a short bark of a laugh. “This is a bad idea, too, actually.”

Scraping of skin on denim as Greg balls his hands into fists and runs them up and down his thighs. Nick watches them, focusing on the veins in his hands, the light hairs running up from his wrist.

“I just want you to know that…therapy is a-“

Anger flares, quickly replacing the panic and Nick puffs himself up, turning to fully face him. Greg nearly slides off the bench, throat working, curling in on himself.

“Who told you?” he hisses. “Catherine?”

“No-“

“ _Was it Catherine?”_ Greg scrambles backward as Nick stands, pocketing the phone. “Was. It. Catherine?”

“Jesus-“

“Answer me!”

“I saw you there, okay?!”

Nick lets the words wash over him, confusion the next emotion on the rollercoaster. He takes a beat, letting the anger fade, finding himself bracketing Greg on the bench, close enough to smell his aftershave. Cold floods him and he stumbles back a step.

“What does that mean? You saw me there?”

His own voice is quiet, a deadly, threatening whisper. He clamps his mouth shut as Greg inches his way back to an upright position. He looks ready to run, rabbit in headlights, glancing toward the door. His hands are shaking. Nick watches as he turns his gaze to them, then balls them up quickly. He shoves them down hard against his thighs before sighing shakily.

“Because I had an appointment earlier today on a break. I was on my way out when you were…when you were you on your way in.”

Nick feels every emotion fall away, panic suddenly all encompassing.

Greg turns wide eyes up to him and Nick is lost. He falls in slow motion back to the bench, tenting his fingers against his mouth and shaking his head. Memories from the session start flooding back and he finds he’s unable to make a sound. Everything sounds distant, far. The bench shudders as Greg moves, and Nick fully drops his face into his hands.

“Nick?”

He can’t speak, can’t move. The bench shifts again and then hands appear on his arms. He screws his eyes shut, feeling himself shaking. Long, warm fingers wrap around his forearms, tugging gently.

“Hey, you’re scaring me.”

Greg’s voice is quiet, unsure. There’s another insistent tug and Nick gives up trying to keep them plastered to his face. When his hands are pulled away, he’s met with Greg below eye level, somehow having wedged himself between Nick and the lockers. He’s kneeling on the tile. He cocks his head curiously at him, trying to find his eyes and Nick shutters his own again, turning his head away.

“Hey, Nick. Look at me. C’mon.”

The words are getting stronger, surer of themselves. Nick’s looking for something, anything to hold on to, to focus on. Greg’s fingers move against his skin, and then he’s suddenly rapt. He soaks in the warmth, feeling the gentle pressure, the swipe of fingertips against his arm.

The panic is slowly fading, the urgency to bolt gone. He takes in a deep breath, hiccups once. He chokes on the next one, then finally, _finally_ begins to fully come down. One hand leaves his arm. Nick jerks when he feels cloth on his face, wiping at his skin. He opens his eyes, lifting a hand, finding wetness on his cheeks.

“Fuck…” he manages.

Greg doesn’t respond, just continues the light ministrations, finally pulling back the sleeve of the long-sleeved tee shirt and just using the pads of his fingers. His eyes are sad, lips pulled into a tight line of worry. When he deems the job done, he sits back slightly, leaning back against a locker.

He clears his throat, voice an unfamiliar tone to Nick. “I have appointments because of the explosion, still. I can’t…some days…I can’t get my hands to stop shaking. I catch sight of the scars on my back and it comes flooding back. Everything is something waiting to be set off. I’m…I’m terrified of the fume hood now. Isn’t that awesome? Former DNA tech who wants to be a CSI, afraid of the fume hood.”

He flaps a hand, then covers his mouth with it for a moment before continuing.

“Three years and they still haven’t stopped. Shaking, I mean. But it’s getting better. I can sleep now without getting up all hours of the night checking on my stove.”

Nick breathes evenly for a few moments, listening. He tilts his head.

“It was my first session.”

Greg shuts his eyes, nodding. “First is the worst. Let me guess: they didn’t focus on the current incident, they wanted your entire past.”

Nick huffs a noise, something he doesn’t like the sound of. It’s bitter.

“Yeah. Back to childhood and everything.” He eyes him for a moment, arranging his next words carefully. “My history…with…something happened when I was a kid. An…an assault. Babysitter. I was nine.”

Greg opens his eyes, doesn’t look at him. They widen as Nick stays quiet and then his brow is knitting. Thin fingers rise to his mouth, absently touching his lips. Eyes turn back to Nick, free of any judgment.

“You don’t have to tell me-“

“Catherine already knows.” He blows out a breath. “And I’ve already told one other person today, why not make it three.”

“You don’t-“

“I’m telling you because I trust you.” He sinks down, the tiredness sweeping over him again. “And because she said it might be helpful to talk about it. Or at least tell people I trust about it. Maybe not the whole thing right now, but…eventually.”

Dark brown eyes look up at him owlishly. Greg blinks for a moment, then something shifts in his features. He settles some more, relaxing into the locker. Nick has a brief thought that it must be uncomfortable.

“When you need to talk, I’m here,” Greg says seriously, voice uncharacteristically low. “I mean it.”

Nick watches him, gauging him. He’s looking at him directly, steady eyes.

“Thank you,” he manages. “For, um…this. Bringing me down here. I didn’t think I was going to get through shift.”

Greg bobs his head once.

“If there’s one thing I can say, keep at it. It sucks, sure. I hated it at first, but it helped. And like I said, I’m here.” He rises, painfully. Nick stands to meet him, steadying him as he unfurls himself from between the lockers and bench. “Not to mention, I remember a certain CSI3 doing the same thing for me on my first scene. Least I can do.”

Nick feels the tug of a smile at his lips and suddenly everything seems lighter.

“That was something else that day. I’ve never seen someone throw up so much. And I was in a frat.”

Greg giggles, a flash of a smile. “Took me a long time to eat barbecue again.”

Nick shudders, nodding.

“You and me both.”

Greg reaches up, lip between his teeth, and rubs Nick’s arm. “You good? Think you can come get dirty with the rest of us now? I have a trash run and I’d love some company.”

Nick’s eyes are glued to the hand on his arm, feeling the light squeeze before Greg lets go and he’s suddenly got a cold spot on his arm. Immediately, he wishes it were back on him and he fights a blush on his skin.

“Gonna pull rank with that one, doll.”

Greg rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and starts to head toward the door. Nick takes a breath before opening it and stepping out into the hallway. When Greg’s beside him, he drapes an arm over his shoulder.

“You could always bring Hodges.”

He laughs when Greg pulls a move, ducking out from under him as he pushes away. He breathes deeply as Greg darts down the hallway, turning to face him a few feet away, smile wide on his face.

And Nick follows.

__

**_2007_ **

__

He’s rifling through his locker, hand throbbing, bandages getting stuck on jutting pieces of metal. He curses softly as he shakily slaps around the top shelf, reaching toward the back. His arm protests, pain from the tetanus shot syncing up with the muscle of his hand as he shuts his eyes, leaning into the darkness. He’s leaning against his upper arm, hand still poised over the metal, disappearing into the blue coolness of the locker.

“Where the _fuck…_ ”

He lets out a short triumphant bark as his hand finds purchase on something small. The cellophane wrapper crinkles under his fingers and he slaps at it, pulling it toward him. The little white carton appears in his line of sight, a beacon.

He holds it to his chest, popping open the package, finding the old BIC lighter still inside. He shoves the whole kit-n-caboodle into his back pocket, slamming the door on the locker shut, and runs a hand through unruly curls as he exits into the hallway.

He narrowly avoids Henry and Hodges, bickering about some…thing…Greg isn’t sure. His hands twitch at his sides, and he makes for the stairwell. The lock bar on the door is heavy as he pushes, cool against heated palms. The short stairwell to the roof swims slightly as he looks up, daunting. He wraps his good hand around the railing, pulling himself toward the first step.

His twists, hearing the door to another floor opening and he bounces slightly in place before racing up the steps toward untold freedom. He bursts through the exit, inhaling the arid, dry heat of the desert and the sunrise immediately bathes him in burning rays.

He shuts his eyes, listening to the traffic below, the short breeze whipping around him. Early morning rush hour has started, commuters heading to work, off to murder…he doesn’t know anymore.

He’s shaking, he realizes, hands clenched beside him.

He fumbles, groping for the pack tucked into his jeans and he pulls it out, pacing. He taps the pack on the bottom, a cigarette popping out the top. He sucks in a breath as he holds it up, twisting it in his fingers. The filter is brown, the paper white, the mishmash of nicotine and tar and fiberglass, and menthol dark below the surface. He can feel himself tensing looking at it; five years gone to waste in a single moment, and he decides…

He decides to…well, fuck it.

The filter dampens immediately between his lips, the heady scent of tobacco reaching toward him. He lifts the lighter, cupping a hand around it, rolling his thumb over the wheel, and-

Nothing.

He shakes it, hearing nothing but a slight rattle.

No fluid left.

He tilts over, cursing. Frustration sweeps over him like a tide, stress cresting, and then finally…something releases from his chest. Some kind of animalistic yell, fading into the morning.

“Thought you quit.”

Greg laughs lowly, humorously, righting himself, turning to face the voice. He swipes at his face, unable to keep his hands from shaking now.

“Yeah,” is all he can spit out.

Nick cocks his head, hands on his hips, knee bent. Greg knows the old cop stance when he sees it, and then Nick is gesturing to him, waving fingers through the air.

“Then what’s that?”

“Poor coping mechanisms,” he deadpans. There’s a soft surge of anger, ebbing as quickly as it comes. It pulls down beside the stress, sidling up to it. He bounces on his heels, shoving his good, currently tremoring hand, into a pocket. The lighter clicks against his nails in his bad hand. “Long term death wish. ICU bound. Whatever you want to call it.”

Nick frowns at him, arms coming to cross against a well-muscled chest straining against that stupid tee-shirt and-

Greg shakes his head, turning away from him and heading toward the outer edge of the roof.

“Hey.” Greg waves two fingers at him. “Get back here, Sanders.”

“Not happening.”

Footsteps crunch behind him as he lifts the lighter again, vainly trying to get a flame going.

Again, nothing.

He slams the lighter down on the waist-high concrete below him, hearing it crack as he pushes his weight into it. He rests elbows onto the beige stone, feeling it bite past the thin button-down and into his skin. He drops his head into his hands, rubbing at his face as he leans over. He taps at the bridge of his nose, feeling the headache that’s been threatening all day finally inch its way slightly further.

The footsteps arrive fully behind him, close enough for a body to cast a shadow over his own form.

“I heard about the swab incident. With the lizard lady.” Greg snorts into his hands, shrugging. “If it’s any consolation, I spent the entirety of yesterday and today in a literal pigsty.”

“Did you need a tetanus shot and antibiotics?”

Nick makes some kind of noise. Greg can picture him tilting his head back and forth; confirms it when he sees the shadow doing exactly that.

“No, but if I had a nickel for every time I’ve had teeth snapped at me while taking a swab-“ He fades out for a moment, humming. “I mean, I’d probably have like, ten bucks, but still.”

The shadow moves to the side and Greg peers through his fingers at the tan shirt appearing next to him. Nick leans back against the edge, arms still crossed over his chest. Greg can feel his eyes on him, burning worse than the sun at his back. He spins, trying to get away from it.

He takes a few steps, eyeing the doorway to the stairwell, and then swings his gaze around the roof.

No exit. Just a flat plane of small gravel and reflective material.

He breathes heavily for a moment, head dropping to his chest.

The moment of silence lasts a split second before he feels something being slid out of his back pocket. He makes a grab for it, and Nick holds the pack of cigarettes aloft, away from him. Greg stumbles slightly, a hand coming to push against his chest.

“Settle.”

The exhaustion thrumming through Greg’s body hits a standstill and he slumps, giving Nick what he hopes is a withering stare. Judging by Nick’s next expression, Greg figures it’s closer to something a little more comically desperate.

“Now,” Nick says, popping open the top of the carton. “I know, for a fact, that something like being bit by a suspect isn’t enough to jar the guy who used to routinely get his hand stuck in the machines in the DNA lab.”

His eyes tick up briefly, lips pursed.

“Because that was kinda bloody sometimes, man. Your hands were bitten up real bad that one week the GCMS went haywire.”

Greg eyes him as he uses a finger to ruck through the pack. Greg can feel the smaller muscles in his body starting to tighten, blinking slowly, evenly, at Nick.

“So. I know that her little love bite wasn’t something to send you flying up here. And then…” He pops two cigarettes out, inspects them casually. “I remembered: you’re on your third double in the last three days.”

Greg deflates a little. Nick nods at him.

“Yeah, what I thought. You’ve only been back a few weeks after the James incident, too,” he says softly. “So, I figured, maybe I’d come up here and make sure you’re okay. Because you haven’t said a word about it.”

Greg lets him grab him by the arm and lead him into the shaded area. Greg finds butts scattered along the ground, and when he turns his head, an overfilled bucket of sand sits beside him.

“What we’re going to do is go sit against this wall here. That’s where Sara sneaks these.”

He pops both of the cigarettes into his mouth. He reaches behind him. Greg can only stare as he produces a Zippo, flicking it open and lighting both of them at once. He inhales, the hiss and crackle of them burning. He flicks the lighter shut with a resounding metallic click.

He takes one out of his mouth, handing it to Greg.

“Sit, kiddo.”

Greg gazes down at him as he plops to sit back against the wall. Nick peers up at him, waiting patiently, and then Greg is sinking down beside him. Nick ashes the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke. Greg finds his voice, finally.

“Since when do you smoke?”

Nick shrugs. “I used to in high school. Part of college. Coach told me to quit, so I did. Never picked it back up…at least not fully. Warrick’s under oath not to rat me out if he catches me, and I have to pay Sara ten bucks whenever she finds me up here. Also? These are stale as shit.”

Greg sucks in his first hit, eyes shutting as the nicotine immediately starts its path into his bloodstream. His brain immediately starts to reroute from scenarios and stress to textbook explanations of what it looks like under a microscope and how to test for it.

He’s halfway through running a test in his head when he feels Nick lean into him, shoulder warm and solid against his own.

“So, gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Greg sighs, pushing his good hand through his hair. “I haven’t been sleeping.”

“That’s a start.” Nick takes another hit off the cigarette. “What else?”

Greg shrugs.

“I keep replaying-“ He can’t bring himself to say the next words. “That. I keep replaying _that._ ”

Nick is quiet beside him, smoke wafting from where he’s dangling the cigarette. Greg spares him a short glance, then ducks his head down.

“I can’t seem to get my head straight. My hands won’t stop shaking. I don’t remember the last time I ate something. And all I keep picturing is _that._ And then there’s the matter of the three double shifts…and then the lizard lady.”

“Who bit you.”

“Who bit me,” Greg echoes.

Nick shifts beside him, inhaling again. There’s a tiny whine when the tobacco burns as he pulls in a breath, more smoke following his exhale. Greg takes two quick hits off his own, ashing it with a sharp tap. He pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping an arm around them. He pushes his forehead down, letting the sounds of the city wash over him.

“You know it’s not your fault,” Nick says quietly.

Greg’s hackles rise, entire body bristling. “I made a conscious choice to run a kid over. I killed him.”

There’s more shifting. Greg tries to bury himself in the darkness of his knees.

“And it’s still not your fault.” He feels a hand on his arm. “Look, you did it to break up a group who were beating someone up. That kid picked up a rock, deliberately stood in front of the car, and went for you. You did what _any_ one of us would have done.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead.”

The hand doesn’t move from his arm, instead squeezing lightly.

“No. No, it doesn’t. That’s true. And not like he had it coming or anything, but the kid definitely did not make a case for himself.”

Greg rubs his face against the denim of his jeans. “You can’t even…Jesus. Don’t fucking say that.”

Nick goes quiet. His hand starts moving, rubbing lightly. “You’re right. Let me try this again: it was an accident. Instinct took over. You hit the gas in the face of a threat, and in doing so, saved both yourself and what would have been a possible d.b.”

Greg lifts his head, sighing. He takes another drag. The hand still hasn’t moved.

“I know, I just…”

“I know, kid. I know.” Nick huffs softly. “Look, we’ve all done shit that we have to live with. When I was a cop in Dallas, there was a kid. Probably a teenager. Had his pregnant girlfriend at knifepoint. This was at a meth lab. So…he wouldn’t drop it. And at some point, we got her away, but then he started coming for me. I did what I had to do.”

Greg tilts his head toward him, eyeing him. Nick’s eyes are far, caught in the memory.

“I wasn’t proud of it. Still not. But the guy was armed. He could have killed me.” He swallows. “People thought I was a hero of some kind. Didn’t feel like it.”

Greg nods, shivering. “Yeah. I can now say I’ve been there.”

“We’ve all been there. It’s part of a really…really gruesome initiation into the field. While not all of us have to do it, it’s more common than you think.” He squeezes his arm again and Greg lets the warmth seep into his skin. “Have you been seeing someone?”

“Mandated. Missed my last session due to the doubles, though.” He takes one more drag, the filter starting to burn. “Same lady who helped me with the explosion stuff.”

Nick makes a soft noise, giving an aborted shrug.

“And…you know…I’m here, too.” He clears his throat. “I mean, we all are. But…you’ve been kind of a big help to me. I’d…um. I’d like to return the favor, if you ever need it.”

The warmth from his hand seems to stretch further into Greg’s body, reaching through to his chest, and whatever tension he’s been holding snaps and falls away, harmless. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Thank you. I might take you up on that.”

Nick gives him a genuine smile, giving him a bob of his head. The skin by his eyes crinkles and Greg finds a sudden fondness toward him. Nick slides his hand up his shoulder and along the back of his neck. Greg follows the movement with a shiver, a sudden flush rising up to his ears.

“We should head in,” he manages.

“Yeah, but first.” Nick stands, offering him a hand up. When Greg’s standing, Nick drops his cigarette, stamping it out. He places a hand on his back, leading him back toward the sundrenched edge of the roof. “We do this.”

He settles with his back against the concrete. Greg eyes him, and Nick gestures past him. He turns, following his gaze to the sunrise. Purples and pinks and oranges peek over the horizon, not a cloud in the sky.

It’s breathtaking.

“Vegas has great sunrises. Never get to see this part. Usually up by the time we leave,” Nick says quietly. “Sit back for a sec.”

Greg leans back, feeling Nick’s hand still protectively on his back. He lets it sit between him and the wall.

He sidles up beside him, inhaling deeply.

And watches the sun come up.

**_2010_ **

There’s a twinge in his back telling him to stand the hell up. He’s been bent over a corpse for the better part of fifteen minutes, collecting odds and ends and threads and skull fragments and…god knows what else, considering the skin slippage. There’s paydirt on the corner of the nightstand: blood, more skull, hair…

He lifts an arm, using his forearm to wipe the sweat off his skin and he sighs audibly, tossing down his second set of gloves in an hour. He pushes himself to his feet, leaning up against the doorframe casually. He raps his fist on the white painted wood, and the officer standing guard pokes his head around.

“Hey, mind if someone hits the AC? I am _dying_ in here.”

The name tag reads “Burton” and Nick gives him a thousand-watt grin. Burton gives him a doleful look, shaking his head.

“Comin’ in hot with the dad jokes isn’t going to win you any points around here,” Burton says shrugging. He removes his ball cap and rubs a hand through sandy blond hair. “But you’re not kidding. Christ. I’ll go see what they can do.”

“Thanks, man.”

Turning on a heel, Nick surveys the rest of the bedroom. There’s stuff he can still do, but he’d rather wait until Super Dave comes, and surprise, surprise, Dave’s late again. He clocks the time, frowning, blows out a breath, then takes a sweep around the room. He lays A-Frames down where he can see visible evidence, photographing what he can in the dim lights before he turns them on.

The AC clicks on suddenly, blasting the room with a cold shot of air.

Nick whoops. “YES! Thank you!” 

There’s muted laughter from down the hall and he grins to himself. He lets himself bask in the coolness for a few minutes, eyes shut, and airing himself out. He turns when footsteps approach the room and he busies himself by tinkering with his dusting powder.

“Oh, thank sweet fucking Jesus, they turned the AC on.”

Nick leans backward, cocking his head. Greg’s standing in the doorway, kit by his side, sunglasses in hand. There’s a dark spot on one eye and Nick immediately draws back.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Greg shrugs, waving absently before setting his kit down. He steps gracefully over several A-Frames and peers down at the body, bending at the waist. From the smell of the guy, Nick doesn’t blame him for not getting any closer.

“What do you need?” Greg asks, still hovering over the body. He’s got some kind of look on his face, one Nick understands to mean the cogs are already turning. “You look like you’ve got a good head start here.”

“Well, someone was late,” Nick answers primly.

“Quad out in Henderson. I just got off it, and then Catherine called me in for overtime on this one.”

“Approved or not?”

Greg lifts his head. “OT? What do you think?”

Nick chuckles, shaking his head.

“Ecklie, man. I swear.” He gestures to the surfaces around the room. “I’ve collected stuff from the body, put down markers with visibles, photographed in to out, and checked for footprints. Skull bits on the nightstand, blood, and hair with it. Aside? Haven’t touched anything else. Ball’s in your court, kiddo.”

Greg snaps on his gloves, meandering around the room for a moment before stopping at the framed photos and mass quantities of pill bottles on the bedside table. He snaps a few pictures before turning to his kit, pulling out powder and tape lifts. Nick lets himself watch as he works, eyes running the length of his body, the lines, the recently cut hair…

He clears his throat and turns away. “So, the eye, dude. What _happened?”_

“Not exciting, trust me.”

“You know, honestly? If you tell me you ran into a door, I’d believe that, because I’ve seen you tear yourself up in the lab so many times, it’s not even funny.” There’s a soft snort from the other side of the room. “But that doesn’t look like a door.”

“Making fun of my lack of coordination again, Stokes?”

Nick grins, swinging his body back and forth. “Always, Sanders.”

Greg’s head dips slightly, a small tug at his lips as he pauses in his dusting. “I had a run-in with a potential’s boyfriend.”

“Casa _nova_!”

He gets a solid glare, but one without any heat to it. “Don’t even start, Nick.”

“Oh, please, continue. By all means. I want to hear this.”

Greg shifts his weight, eyeing the wall for a moment, fingers drumming on the dusting powder container. Dark eyes shut and then he blows out a breath.

“Guy didn’t tell me he was taken. Boyfriend didn’t like me. End of story.”

When the words sink in, Nick fumbles with his own powder, slipping from his fingers and clattering back into his kit. He doesn’t think his eyes can get any wider as he stares at Greg, who’s sheepishly shrugging at him and turning his back.

“Hold _on._ You said... _he?_ ”

“Mmhm.” Nick’s got a gloved hand in the air as he stutters on his next words. When he can’t find them, Greg sighs. “Please don’t-“

“No, I just…give me a second here.” Something like a trip-wire goes off in his brain and a flood of nerves flashes through his body. His skin goes hot and pulls tighter to his bones and he swallows thickly. A feeling akin to excitement lights up in his chest and he shudders suddenly. “I didn’t know, is all. Give a guy a second to process.”

Greg turns fully facing him, gesturing the length of his body. “Process. And then _process,_ Nick.”

Nick chuffs, sucking his lips in.

Give him a second and he just might…Jesus, Greg.

But he takes the moment given. He gets a brief tingling in his arms when he thinks back to the locker room meltdown from therapy years ago. From the spot Greg had touched to bring him back down. To the feel of his own hand against Greg’s back on the roof that one time during the shared smokes and sunset. To the stealing of bacon from Greg’s plate. To Greg handing him his own coffee mug for Nick to take a sip from. To the shy, private smiles Greg gives him across the layout room table. To the banter. To the flirtatiousness of certain conversations. To the closeness Nick wanted. To the…

Oh, fuck.

“So, okay. Remember that conversation we had? Several times? About telling each other things? I’m just saying, a heads up would have been nice.” An affirmative noise from Greg. “But…it’s not weird, or anything. If you wanted to…talk or something.”

The little speech ends with a really lame gesture and he starts internally kicking himself.

“No, no. I probably should have mentioned something.”

Nick eyes him as he gives him a shy glance before bending back down to dust. Greg drops into a squat, going for the nightstand handles.

“So, you gonna elaborate, now that I know?”

Greg makes an annoyed noise from the floor, waving the dusting wand around, eyes rolling. “I went to Breezy’s last night. Wanted a few drinks, hear some loud music, drown out…all of this. And this guy comes up to me, starts hitting on me, we get to talking. And then out of _nowhere_ , this…this, _massive_ guy comes storming up to us and starts asking me what I’m doing with _his_ boyfriend, who am I…all that. Next thing I know, I’m out in the alley, on my back.”

The wince as he stands is now visible and Nick has to grab onto the bureau to keep from hauling ass over to him.

“You okay? That sounds rough.”

“Well, any dignity I had went out the window _years_ ago, courtesy of you guys. So, that’s good.” He waves the wand again. “I’m fine, though. Thanks.”

Nick needs a sudden excuse to go where he is, and he paws through his kit. He pulls two powders out, checking the labels, and makes a quick survey of the surfaces Greg’s working on.

He needs to know for sure.

“Hey, what are you using over there?”

“Powder?” Nick nods, stepping carefully around the body, sidling up beside him. “I’m using Bi-chro. Why?”

Holding up the small tubs, he jerks his chin at the wood.

“I’ve got two new flouros that Sara gave me. Bi-chro is good, but I think these might give you better results. The wood is pretty legit in here.”

“You think?” Greg caps his dusting powder, setting it down. Reaching down carefully, he removes the tubs from Nick’s palms, letting fingers brush against them. “Sara mentioned the red one, yeah. Said it was something Griss made. Dragon…something. Raved about the stuff for a solid week.”

Nick’s too busy waiting for the lightning rods in his arms to chill out to answer solidly. He’s certain now.

Shit.

“Yeah, yeah. Anything other than…other than…black or white or aluminum, she freaks out about. Shoulda seen her in a bathroom with the green.”

He stumbles back a few steps, nearly planting one boot into the pool of blood. A steady hand catches him and all he can do is look down.

“You good?”

The bruise around Greg’s eye-and it’s horrible to look at, too, Nick can’t even begin to imagine how it _feels-_ only heightens the concern in his features and Nick brushes him off gently.

“I’m fine. Heat in here. Smell’s-“

“Yeah.” Greg waggles the container at him. “Thanks. I’ll start using this one instead. I have a bottle of water if you want.”

“I’ll be good.” Greg’s eyes wander around the room for a moment and then drop to the floor. “No footprints aside from the slippers so far, on first glance.”

Greg steps toward the bathroom, giving it a cursory once over, then looks down at the body. He squats, head tilted.

“Skull fragments?”

“Mmhm.”

“And pill bottles on the table over there…”

Nick follows his train of thought, dropping to hover beside him. He’s close enough that the heat from him seeps into his skin. The decomp smell wafts up toward him, rank enough to make him wrinkle his nose. He waves a hand over the body.

“Call it.”

“Heart meds, still full, outdated. Heart attack followed by blunt force trauma. DFO’d.”

Nick offers him a grin.

“What I’m thinking, too.” He wavers in place, suddenly unsteady at the closeness. “So, I have to ask: is this like a new thing? This…uh…”

He’s too caught up in the freckles that are now up close and personal to finish.

“Not exactly. College kinda…let me figure it out. Drunken threesome. _That_ was some kinda revelation.”

“I’ll bet.” Nick tries for levity. “So, what’s your type, then? Maybe we can narrow the playing field.”

Greg chuckles, snagging his glove with a finger and snapping it off.

“Brunettes. I like brunettes. Good build, nice smile, sense of humor. Easy going. Non-judgmental.”

Nick goes stock still. The nerves are firing off one by one now, turning his entire body into a pyre. He swallows back thickly, fingers wringing each other. Suddenly, the thought that they’re still poised over a dead body and discussing dating strikes him, and he laughs. Greg quirks an eyebrow at him. Nick waves a hand, settling.

“I mean…most of that is fine, but the last one’s gonna be a hard fill. You’re weird, man.”

There’s a soft swat to his arm, a soft grin meeting his own when he finds Greg’s eyes. Brown eyes roll upwards and then there’s a warm hand on his back pressing down. Greg’s standing, using Nick to leverage himself up.

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon. Back to work.”

And Nick…Nick spends the next hour trying not to look at Greg’s ass.

Straw wrappers are fragile, Nick decides, tearing one up and balling it into little pieces. He’s reaching for another piece as he takes a pull off the straw it once contained, setting the little balls down in a row in front of him.

Greg’s eyeing him warily, he can feel it. Nick knows he can hear the tapping of his heel as his knee jostles. He’s shaking the table, the little wrapper balls bouncing ever so slightly. When he lifts his eyes, he meets dark brown, surrounded by mottled dark blue on one side. It’s even more garish in the fluorescent lights of the diner, coupled with the tiredness exuding in waves off of him and the dark crescent under the uninjured eye.

“What?” Nick manages.

“You’re…antsy. Something’s up.”

“Nothing’s up. I’m just…thinking.” He reaches for another piece of straw wrapper. He’s stopped by a hand, thin fingers curling around his own. His brain short circuits and he can only muster some kind of noise as a follow-up. He tries again. “About work and stuff. Game’s on this weekend. Can’t remember if I put in for the pool or not. Should probably call my sister back. You know, Catherine’s having a really hard-“

“Stokes?”

“Hm?”

“You’re rambling.”

“Oh.”

And they go quiet again. But Greg’s hand hasn’t left his yet, and then his chest is tightening, excitement being replaced by anxiety and thoughts of rejection and bad ideas and-

“Nick?” Greg is tapping his fingers against his own. “Hey, eyes forward.”

The command is soft, something Greg used to say in the lab when he was prattling on about evidence. But instead of the usual annoyance, it’s toned down, concern coloring it. Nick reluctantly lifts his eyes, giving him a weak smile.

“Is this about…about the thing I said earlier?” The slight hurt to the question doesn’t slip by Nick, and he congratulates himself on being lucid enough to catch at least that. “If it freaks you out-“

“No! No, it doesn’t. I just. And it’s not that…I mean…it has something to do with that, but it’s not-“

They’re interrupted by their food arriving and Greg nearly inaudibly thanks the waitress for the coffee refill. He waits until she’s gone before turning back to Nick. He replaces his hand over his.

“You’re having a meltdown, aren’t you?”

Nick slumps, shaking. “Maybe.”

“Wanna tell me why?” Nick shakes his head. “Okay, how about a hint then?”

“Box,” is all Nick can manage and he suddenly, very much, hates himself.

“The box. Is it too tight in here?” Greg’s voice is quiet and bless him, he’s trying. They’re in an open space, with only one booth filled on the other end of the diner. Nick shakes his head again. “No, okay. Something else.”

If this is going to go anywhere, Nick knows he needs to man the hell up and just come clean. He takes as many shuddering breaths as he can, and he finally manages to find his voice. 

“I found out a few things about myself after the box. And in therapy.” It’s the tiniest he’s ever sounded to himself. “And you telling me about that…and I just…had a thought.”

“What about?”

The eggs in front of him are too yellow, the bacon too red, the toast too brown, and he wants so badly to be able to retune the whole thing back into focus.

“A thought about…about maybe asking you out.”

The fingers around his hand tighten slightly, dark eyes are blown wide, and for a moment, Nick’s about to backpedal. Hard.

But then, Greg’s slipping into an easy grin, thumbing at the skin of Nick’s wrist, and like so many times before, the calm starts to settle over him.

Maybe the blow off won’t be so bad.

“ _That’s_ what you’ve been freaking out about all night? Asking me out?” Greg sighs, shaking his head. There’s a beautiful flush working its way up his neck, and Nick wants to know how far down it goes, where it ends. “Because I would say yes.”

Time stops. His blood slows to a crawl in his veins. The anxiety plummets, and excitement explodes.

“You would?” Nick clears his throat, staring. Greg’s expression doesn’t waver and Nick swears he sees a spark in those eyes. “You would.”

Greg offers him a nod. The calm drapes over him like a pall, and he relaxes back into the booth. Small movements are all he can handle at the moment, so he twitches his fingers until they’re rubbing against Greg’s. He threads them loosely, a stupid smile drifting onto his features, pulling his skin tight.

“So. Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Greg hums contentedly, shrugging. It’s an adorable look on him, Nick decides. “But considering I worked through break, _twice now_ , I’m gonna pause this here and say eat your damn eggs, Stokes.”

Nick flicks a paper ball at him.

And he’d be lying if he said that answered smile didn’t follow him into his dreams that night.

**_2013_ **

Greg leans his head back against a wall, eyes shut. The bright lights of the lab stab past his eyelids and into his brain. A dull pounding comes to the forefront and he inhales sharply wincing, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You look like you’re having some kind of moment.”

That oily, pretentious voice…Greg tilts his head back.

“Hodges.”

The tech looks at him oddly, features turning to concern. He cocks his head at him, stuffing his hands into his lab coat pockets. He’s studying him, Greg realizes, and he shifts, straightening his back up against the wall.

“Trouble in paradise?” Hodges asks softly. Greg looks for any kind of sarcasm, a joke, anything. There isn’t any. Just a simple question. A friendly ask. “Because you look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

Greg’s head falls down on its own accord. “Guessing you heard the argument.”

“By that, you mean hearing you and Nick have it out? Yeah.” He swings himself around in each direction, checking for eyes. “But I don’t think anyone else heard. Pretty dead in here today. Lot of vacations.”

If he wasn’t so damn tired, he’d probably nod. He feels weird, untethered for some reason and he rubs at his forehead.

“Hey, why don’t we go sit in Trace for a minute?”

Greg eyes him warily for a moment before nodding. He swipes at his cheek, fidgets with his hair, and then peels himself off the wall. He follows Hodges to his lab, keeping his head down.

Hodges gestures grandly toward a stool. “Sit. I’ve got your results anyway.”

Greg gratefully takes a seat, leaning his elbows on the table. He fists his hands, pressing them into his forehead and he lets them shadow over his eyes.

“So, what happened? You guys are usually on the same page.”

Greg cracks an eye open, seeing Hodges has pulled a stool up across from him. He weighs his options of telling him. He knows how fast word gets around here. They’ve been under the radar for years now, a rumor no one pays much mind to. But even still-

He sighs, crossing his arms on the table and dropping his head onto them.

“Hours are getting to us. I took a case the other night. Wasn’t supposed to.”

There’s a soft verbal hiss, and he rolls his head. Hodges is wincing.

“Guessing that didn’t fly.”

Greg points at him. “Bingo.”

Soft scrape of plastic caps on the floor. “Was it a big night?”

There’re rustling papers and a folder is settled gently in front of him. He reaches for it absently, lifting his head.

“No, but it was…it was a night we both had off for once. And I don’t know. Something set us both off, and we’ve been at this boiling point for days now and it’s been nothing but doubles and I took this one case because it was mob-related and D.B. asked if I could help out on it, and it turned into nearly ten hours of extra work and I didn’t sleep and-“

Hodges holds up his hands.

“Whoa, okay.” The tech’s studying him again. Greg thinks it’s just his face at this point. Permanently stuck like that. “So, yeah, that sounds brutal. And Nick just got off some kinda triple shift-“

Greg shuts his eyes, rubbing at one. “Mm. Yeah. And he’s pissed off at the moment about the outcome of his last case. D.B. called a shot he didn’t like.”

“So I’ve heard. Something about DNA. Guy walked?”

“Yeah.”

Hodges’ eyes flick to the side. “And he went off. At you.”

Greg drops his head back down. All he wants to do is sleep. Curl up and sleep. In his bed. Alone. With the blackout curtains. And the air conditioner on blast. And the-

He blinks, lifting his head, shakes it.

“Things have been tense.” He waves a hand at the file. “Between half of Vegas getting murdered and little to no time off to see each other, it’s been…rough.”

He heaves in a breath, Hodges nodding sagely across from him. His hands are clasped, peering intently at him.

“You guys ever had this issue before?”

Greg nods. “Back when we first started going out. But it was never this bad. The hours, I mean. We were able to work around it, but this time? It’s hard. And both of us kinda snapped.”

He lays a hand flat against the file, pulling it toward himself. He flips it open, eyes scanning down the pages. He flips the first one up over the brad at the top, threading a hand through his hair.

“Sounds like you guys need a break.” Greg’s face must do something alarming because Hodges’ hands fly up again, his own eyes widening. “No, no, I don’t mean it like that. You guys are ridiculously made for each other. I mean from here. You should probably take some vacation days from _here._ Spend some time at home, you know? Make dinner, watch movies, sleep.”

“You think?”

“Or keep duking it out in the lab to the point where one of you ends up being detained. Your choice.”

Greg sighs, shutting his eyes again. He covers them with his hand. Footsteps slow to a stop outside the room, and when he looks up, Nick is gazing at him hard. Something about his stance is off-putting and Greg taps his fingers on the table. He waits him out, seeing Nick give Hodges a nod before heading down toward DNA.

“We’ve talked about a vacation. Might be good.” Hodges grins at him warmly, palms up. “Thanks, Hodges. Didn’t think you’d be…I don’t know.”

He offers him a little laugh and the tech waves.

“You’ve been-“ Hodges clears his throat. “You’ve been nice to me. And this sucks. I can tell it sucks. Both of you look like you simultaneously want to murder each other and hug each other. But that aside, I consider you a friend. And figured it might help to talk.”

All Greg can do is blink at him before nodding, offering him a small smile.

“I appreciate it, Hodges.” He slips off the stool, flapping the file. “What’s in here, anyway?”

“White fibers. Standard. Probably a towel.” 

Greg groans.

And then his phone goes off. 

Pools of blood.

Five bodies.

Three kids.

A massacre inside a house.

Greg leans against his bathroom sink, cold water dripping off his skin and onto the porcelain. The dull noise of droplets is loud inside the tiny room. The skin across his knuckles is pulled tight against the bone, fingertips curled into the basin. He can’t control his breathing, can’t get the images out of his head.

Body parts strewn across carpeting.

Blood spatter coating the walls.

Turning family photos into a macabre piece of art.

He’s shaking, hard enough to rattle the mirror in front of him and he turns the spigot on again, splashing more water across his face. He slips a hand to the back of his neck, shutting his eyes. He wants a rewind, wants to go back to the beginning of the day…whichever day it might be now, he’s lost track. To the good morning kiss in bed, to the strong hug, to the light nuzzle at that spot below his ear. To when he was handing Nick a thermos full of coffee and telling him he’d be right behind him…

He shivers suddenly, shaking his head. He sucks in as many breaths as he can get, not knowing when the next full one will happen. He clamps his hands down on the sink again, gritting his teeth. He can’t…

He slaps at the wall, finding the light switch and the room goes dark. He gropes his way down the hallway, throwing on the first sweatshirt he finds, pulling over a pair of sneakers and he fumbles, on autopilot. His keys jangle as he swipes them from the table by the door along with his phone and wallet, knocking his shoulder into the frame as he struggles to lock up behind him.

He shouldn’t be driving. Not like this. He knows that.

But he needs…

It’s raining when he steps outside. A rarity in Vegas. He lets it soak through him, through his hair, through the sweatshirt, through his sneakers, as he sits and stares at his car for a moment. It taunts him from its parking space, little red LVPD sticker in the windshield of the SUV bright against the black of the interior.

Before he knows it, he’s in the driver’s seat, shaking still. His hands are slippery against the wheel. He turns the radio completely off, the AC flushing the car with cold air. The route is simple, takes only a few minutes. He knows it by heart.

He starts driving.

It’s two minutes out before he remembers to turn on the wipers, following the road to the residential area. Nearly there before his chest starts to constrict again as those images flash through his mind. A soft noise bounces around the interior of the car and he realizes he’s making it. He’s keening.

God, he’s keening.

A broken, terrified noise he’s never heard himself make before. Fingers tighten against the wheel as he makes a turn. The rain just pours down harder, beating in droves against the tempered glass and thundering along the metal top.

He’s losing his mind by the time he makes it to the driveway. He stumbles out of the car once he’s sure it’s parked, emergency brake up. The wood on the gate splinters against his palms, damp as he pushes it open. It creaks shut behind him.

He’s in front of the door now, standing, shivering. Cold fingers are curled around the car key in his hand. Instead, he leans an arm against the door, knocking hard.

No answer.

He tries again.

And again…nearly throwing himself against the door.

There’s a click. A single, blessed click and the door opens.

Nick’s eyes melt immediately from annoyed to worry when he sees him, pulling the door open.

“What the _fuck_ , Sanders?” Strong hands are grabbing at him, fistfuls of soggy thick material bunching around his arms. He lets himself be pulled. “Greg?”

Words. Words are being said, but he’s finally hit the peak of the anxiety attack and he can’t answer him. He balls fists up, pulling the end of the sleeves into his palms. He raises them in front of himself, finding they connect with something warm, solid.

Nick’s chest.

Fingers curl around his wrists, pulling, tugging, and then the room slides upwards. He’s being made to sit. He sinks into the leather couch, curling over into himself. Arms bracketing the sides of his head, he tries to keep still. Just still. Maybe it’ll pass.

And then he can’t breathe again.

He sucks in, catching, coughs. He pushes himself further into his thighs. Warm hands are on his back, seemingly unsure of what to do. He barely registers more words, blood rushing through his skull.

Blood. Right. So much of it. Those kids…

Something being thrown over his body. Soft fleece brushes against the back of his neck. A blanket, he thinks. More warmth, this time on his arms. They’re rubbing, whispers being tossed around. Light peaks through the darkness, flashing. The TV’s on. Muted. Then the table’s being moved. Shadows fall over him.

Hands are on his face or at least trying to get to his face and he rips his head away. Wetness streaks down his cheeks, not from the rain. He knows he’s crying. Doesn’t care. Skin presses against his own.

“Greg, hey.” Nick’s voice. Close to his skin. It’s worried, higher pitched. He’s scared. And it takes a lot to jostle Nick Stokes. “Baby, talk to me.”

_Baby_.

Greg grabs onto the word like a lifeline, focusing, repeating it in Nick’s voice in his head and he sucks in a breath. It’s a little easier this time.

Until the images come back. The flashing lights click off, darkness draping over the room. Nick’s hands slide under the blanket, roaming, shaking. They rest on his sides, flicking the sweatshirt up and finding his skin. Nick presses against him.

“Greg? Please…” He can’t speak again, too caught up in the constant replay of the case. “I need you to talk to me, sweetheart.”

Fingers are in his hair, brushing it back. His heart is in his throat, his own lungs betraying him. He wavers, trying to focus. Trying to find…something.

“Do you need me to call someone?” Nick’s voice is shaking.

All he can do is flail his hands out, groping. He finds shoulders, broad, steady. He digs his fingers in, clawing. Finally, _finally_ , he finds the opportunity to gasp out a few words.

“Bad…bad case. Can’t…I _can’t. Nicky.”_

It comes out weak, strained. He knows the rarely used nickname will convey what he needs it to. Nick’s up in a flash. He’s beside him in an instant, uncurling him. He’s pulled into a lap. Warm. A heartbeat, a hand on his side, in his hair.

“C’mon, Greg. Breathe.” Nick steadies himself. “That’s it. In and out. With me, baby. With me.”

Water drops onto Greg’s skin, and he realizes Nick’s crying, too.

Christ. They’re a mess.

Could be hours. Could be days. He doesn’t know. Time passes, though. Enough for the panic to finally recede. For his heart rate to go down. For his lungs to finally break loose from the constriction. Two fingers press to his neck, muttered counting under Nick’s breath.

“That’s it, slowing down, sweetheart,” Nick whispers. He’s so close to him, voice muffled by Greg’s hair, he thinks. The rush of awareness returning to him is overwhelming. Nick hushes him again. Realizes he’s making some kind of noise. “Easy, easy.”

The silence of the room comes in stark around him. It presses, the hum of the AC getting louder and threatening. He’s overly aware of the coolness of the air, the warmth of Nick against him, that white noise feeling in his limbs. Everything is fine-tuning, the fleece in the blanket like needles against his skin. He’s vaguely aware he’s still shaking, muscles spasming hard beneath his skin, firing like pistons. There’s a dull ache settling in, his fingers are frozen into claws, clutched for dear life into Nick’s shoulders.

Nick’s smoothing a hand down his back, his face pressed into Greg’s temple. The scrape of his beard against Greg’s skin causes an abrupt shudder. It’s too rough, too sudden. His body jerks, trying to pull away. He hears some kind of animalistic scream, feels it rip from his throat. Barely recognizes his own voice. Nick’s hold on him never falters, calm as ever.

“No, kiddo. Just stay put for a minute.” Greg cringes, shaking his head. “I know, I know. Just…until you can stand. Christ, you’re shaking so hard, Greg.”

There’s movement, the blanket tucking closer to his body, trapping both their heat. Greg waits his own body out. He coughs again, folding into the blanket, fingers slowly unclenching from Nick’s shoulders. They hurt, cramped. He sucks in warm air, hiding in the dark the fleece provides. Things finally start settling.

The brightness of everything dims, the stark outlines fade. His hearing finally tunes back in, no longer a deafening roar.

It’s quiet.

He blinks, coming face to face with a black tee-shirt, maybe navy, he isn’t sure. He’s curled awkwardly against Nick, half in his lap, legs over his thighs. When he comes up for air, Nick’s arms tighten around him. A simple flex, hands splayed along his back.

“Greg? You with me?” He tests himself, nods. Finds he’s back in control. “Good, okay. Why don’t we…why don’t we get you dried off and in bed, okay? Get warm, maybe.”

He’s floundering in his words, Greg realizes, and he blinks again, feeling Nick’s hands slide down. They get under his arms, pulling him upright and against him. The rooms tilts, Greg makes a noise, shutting his eyes.

“Easy. I got you, I got you.” Greg wavers in place, Nick a steady presence. “Bathroom.”

Greg can manage a nod now, letting himself be pulled in different directions. They’re traveling, suddenly. One of his arms is draped over Nick’s shoulders, another tightly around his waist. The space in front of him is dark. The hallway. They turn a little. A bright light flicks on. He sinks backwards, nearly pulling them both to the ground. Nick’s planted to the floor, easily pulling him back. He settles him against the sink.

There’s too much white, which Greg suddenly finds funny because the bathroom is a series of dark grays and even darker grays. The trim is white, the tub is white, the sink is white, and everything is just…all too bright.

Strong features under overly wide, concerned eyes appear in front of him, blocking any and everything, and a soft thwap of fabric sounds near him. He jerks his head, a towel coming to wipe gently at his face.

“You are soaked,” Nick murmurs. “No wonder you’re shaking. Maybe a shower-“

“No.”

The words are more of a rasp than anything else, but Greg sighs in relief at being able to speak again. As for Nick, his eyes widen. He nods, continuing to dry him off gently. He presses the towel to his face, his shoulders, his arms. He rubs it through his hair, against the back of his neck.

“Bad case, you said. I heard. I’m-“

Blood.

Body parts.

Empty eyes.

The nausea rises faster than Greg anticipates. He shoves Nick aside. Stumbling, tripping, falling. He grabs for the toilet lid, pulling it up, and empties what little he’s eaten in the past twenty-four hours or so into the bowl. The porcelain is cool against his skin. He spreads an arm along one arced edge, the other bending to push a hand to his forehead.

There’s a soft thud on the rug beside him as Nick drops to his knees. Familiar hands at his back, slipping under the sweatshirt. Smart fingertips run the length of his spine. It’s comforting. He squeezes his eyes shut as his body betrays him again and he’s got his head back in the toilet.

“At least it’s not bushes this time,” Nick quips.

It shouldn’t be funny.

But it is.

And Greg is laughing hysterically, manically, into the bowl. He spits, the waves of quivering heaves start to ebb. He’s left exhausted suddenly. He drops his head to the edge.

“Five. Chopped up. Three kids.”

Nick hisses, closer now. “Fuck. I’m sorry, baby. I heard it was bad…didn’t know how bad.”

He allows himself to be pulled upright again. The next few minutes are a blur of movement: he’s being undressed, not much help to Nick. Something soft and warm is being pulled over his head, up his legs, and he’s driven backwards into something even softer.

Familiar.

Smells like home.

Nick sits on the edge of the bed, brushing his hair back from his forehead and Greg blinks up at him. He only now realizes Nick’s dressed for bed; the curtains are drawn. He must have woken him up.

And then another thought filters in.

The argument.

He shuts his eyes, turning his head away. The bed dips as Nick slips in beside him. A hand reaches him, spreading across his stomach, and then he’s being pulled. The movement sucks, frankly, and he swallows back. But then, then he’s facing Nick, burying himself into his chest as Nick sighs, curling a hand around the back of his head.

“We’re fighting,” Greg mutters weakly.

“Yeah, fuck that,” Nick says with a soft snort, a hint of laughter. He sighs again, pressing his lips to his skin. “That was the worst one yet, G.”

The shaking has stopped now. He’s warming up, pushes his face into Nick’s collarbone as the older man pulls the heavy comforter up over them both.

“Sleep. We’ll talk about it when you wake up.”

The door creaks. Paws pad over to the bed before there’s another weight against Greg’s back. He feels a snout on his arm. He lifts it, accommodating Sam, the German Shepherd. He buries his hand into soft fur. The extra heat is welcome.

Greg’s eyes slip shut. “I love you.”

Nick nuzzles at his temple.

“Love you, too. Always. Sleep, baby.”

And he does.

**_2015_ **

__

Rage.

Pure, unbridled _rage_.

It’s blinding, white-hot. It cancels out all other feelings, both physical and emotional. And because of that, it takes Nick a few seconds to realize he’s being yanked away from the suspect. His hands are firmly around the guy’s neck, pinching into the nerves behind his shoulder as he shakes him roughly. The guy’s cowering.

Good. That’s what he wants.

For this piece of shit to be scared.

There’s a final yank, his hands are shaken loose, and he’s flying, screaming as he slams back into the two officers. He’s aware he’s cursing, seeing Brass pinching the bridge of his nose as he waves his free hand at the officers. He mutters something to them, then, it’s a blur of movement. He passes from the doorway, seeing other officers making room for them as he’s bodily carted down the hallway. He seethes quietly, trying to unhinge his arms from the officers’ grasp.

Not working.

He turns his head, glancing over his shoulder, seeing Brass step out. He’s speaking quietly to other officers, throwing a look Nick’s way and one of them trots down the hall past Nick and his posse.

“Let. Me. Go.”

His own voice startles him. It’s a low growl, anger lancing through every word.

“No can do, Stokes. Under orders.”

“ _Fuck_ your orders,” he snaps.

He’s planted into a seat in their lobby. He wriggles as they pull their grip off of him. He immediately shoots upwards, only to be slammed back down into the hard vinyl. His whole body is humming, adrenaline shooting through every limb. He’s ready to pounce, watching as the uniforms leave. They pause at the door, straightening, and stand posted.

Nick rolls his eyes, cursing heavily as he pushes his palms into his eyes. He breathes in through his nose, nostrils flaring as he thinks about the perp’s oily smirk again. Those beady eyes, the thought of what those hands had done to that girl, that casual slink to his step when he was brought in. Nick’s anger flares again, and he bounces up out of the chair.

“Sit down, Stokes. Don’t make me cuff you to the chair,” the guy at the desk says. He’s got his hands on his cuffs, making a show of them. Nick flips him off, pacing around the room. “You get a four-foot radius.”

Nick growls, staring the officer down. “There’s a man in there who chopped a girl up, isn’t fessing up to it, and I have shit I need to collect so I can throw him away. If you’re gonna cuff me, _cuff me._ Because I ain’t sittin’ down until I get to do that.”

The officer backs off, hands up. He sighs, shaking his head as he returns his eyes to the bay of security TVs. Nick turns when he hears footsteps down the corridor and Brass appears in the doorway. He flicks his fingers between the two cops posted, and they let him through. Angry eyes meet Nick’s and then Brass is right in his face.

“What the _fuck_ was that in there, Stokes? Assaulting a suspect? Do you understand what you just did? Seventeen years here and you decide today is the day you want to get fired?”

Nick sneers, shaking his head. “If he hadn’t-“

Blue eyes narrow at him.

“Oh, what? If he hadn’t made that comment? If he hadn’t looked at you a certain way? What, Stokes? What?” Brass shakes his head. “We’ll be lucky if we don't have a lawsuit slapped on us for brutality. You want to act this way, go find another lab to work in. We’re done here. And if you take one step toward that room, I will personally haul you off to county myself. Are we clear?”

Nick’s anger surges again, can feel everything in his body tightening. His hands are clenched by his sides, fists curling.

“Yes, _sir,_ ” he managed through grit teeth.

Brass turns to leave, disbelief on his face. “Like you have some kind of death wish, I swear to God.”

Brass says something to the officers at the door and they nod, leaving Nick to resume his angry pacing. The more he thinks about the case, about the dead-end evidence, the dead girl in pieces, the more than definite suspect…

He lets out a strangled noise, tearing at his hair. He stares out the window for a moment, spotting Brass shrugging his shoulders up and holding his hands palm up by his sides. He mouths a “what now” at him and Nick turns his back to the window. He paces a few more steps, kicking at the metal feet of the bolted-down chairs along the window. He throws his hands up behind his head, linking them.

There’re more quick footsteps behind him and when he looks up, a shock of white appears in the corner of his eye. D.B. stands at the door, giving him a withering look.

“You’re on suspension. Effective immediately. Do you hear me?”

Nick stalks toward him. Seemingly without fear, D.B. approaches him, tilting his head, hands in his pockets.

“That guy-“ Nick starts.

“Is going to sue us because of you. And he may walk. He’s the only suspect we had, Nick. And if you can’t-“

“I can’t _what_? Calm down? I’ll tell you that he did it. I know he did. His DNA is everywhere, on everything, on her. On the dumpsters we found her in. In her house-“

“None of that has been proven yet, which is why you need to lay the hell off of him. And _choking_ him? What the hell were you thinking?! What is wrong with you?”

Nick can’t answer him, all he can see is red right now and he paces away from him, shaking his head. D.B. sighs behind him.

“I can’t reason with you. Jesus Christ, Stokes.”

And then, he’s gone. Off down the hallway. Nick shoves at the chairs, wandering around the room again. The desk officer eyes him warily and he has half a mind to get in the guy’s face just for the hell of it. His blood has taken to pounding through his veins and he suddenly feels the eyes of other passing officers. He wants to be back in the lab, in his office, where he can tear the place apart in peace. Here, he can’t even rattle the chairs.

He looks up when he sees D.B. returning, heading toward the lobby. A flash of a black blazer follows him, but Nick glances orange fabric and the glinting of metal cuffs. The suspect is grinning at him as he’s walked, handcuffed down the hallway next to a cop, in front of him. Nick slams himself toward the door, only to be walked back by the other officers.

“We’re gonna put you away, asshole! Don’t let him go!” 

The suspect only grins wider, giving him a wink.

Hands push him back as the red haze returns. He hears voices as he tries to throw himself toward the door and then D.B. is pushing him back. He’s pushed away and toward the window, where an officer stands by dangling cuffs.

“No, no, let me…let me _through._ ”

There’s movement behind him, and Nick spins, finding Greg standing in front of him. He’s steady, eyeing him unblinkingly. But he’s also flushed and out of breath. Probably ran from the lab, Nick thinks. 

Nick steps back, shaking his head, about to open his mouth when-

-a hard slap to his face makes him reel. He stumbles back, falling into one of the seats against the window. D.B. is talking quietly and suddenly, it’s just him, Nick, and Greg near the seats. Even the desk jockey is gone.

Greg is seething quietly in front of him. He’s leaning over, casting a shadow, shielding him from the rest of the room.

“What the _fuck,_ Nick?” he hisses.

Nick’s too busy rubbing at his face. The anger has dissipated, like a light gone out. The adrenaline is making a swift exit, exhaustion slowly taking its place. He tilts his head up, seeing D.B. trying to hide a smirk. He scoffs when D.B. turns his head away, pretending to ignore the situation. 

He jumps when Greg leans further, hands resting easily on his thighs. He turns his head up, seeing dark brown eyes glaring at him. In this moment, right here, Greg is utterly terrifying. Nick weighs his options, wiggling in his seat a little. 

“You slapped me,” he mutters.

“Yeah, I had to. You were losing your shit.”

“You _slapped_ me.”

Greg sighs, head dipping. When he lifts his head again, he takes one hand, running it over slicked hair. He musses it up some, then lets the hand drop back to Nick’s thigh.

“You know what’s at stake here. I know you do. You and I ran the evidence. Twice. We know it’s him. But we have to wait until the DNA results are back. You can’t go around throttling people because you feel like it.”

There’s a brief memory of his hands around the suspect’s neck and he shakes a hand out, the other still planted on the hot palmprint on his cheek. Greg shifts his stance, leaning heavier on him. Nick leans back. 

“We know he’s a serial. That kinda guy could be _nothing but_ a serial. But what kind of serial is up to the test results. We’re doing this on a hunch here, nothing more. And we can’t convict him if it doesn’t tell us what we need to know. You get me?”

Nick rolls his eyes and there’s a smaller, still sharp pat to his face. He swats at his hand.

“Don’t touch me,” he growls.

“If you keep acting like that, I’m going to keep smacking you like that.” Greg huffs. “You know who said that? Papa Olaf-“

Nick groans and he hears D.B. doing the same quietly. Greg turns to shoot D.B. a look before he continues.

“And you know why he said that? Because how else would I have learned not to be a little shit? And right now, you’re being a little shit. Guess what happens when you’re a little shit?”

“I’m guessing I get smacked,” Nick mutters.

“Exactly. You were always a quick study.” Greg leans forward, pushing his forehead into his. “What would Grissom think if he saw this?”

Nick pushes forward into him. He’s ready to retaliate, but then, he thinks about his former supervisor, all fight draining. 

“I’d be fired,” he admits. He shuts his eyes, sighing. Greg’s hands are pressing into his thighs. “But he’d side with me about-“

“He’d side with the _evidence,_ ” Greg says, annoyance coloring his tone. “And that’s what we have to wait for. A lawsuit could shut this whole thing down.”

Greg hangs his head, and Nick is met with a noseful of hair. He inhales deeply for a moment, letting the familiar citrus shampoo and sharp body wash fill his lungs. He presses his nose into his hair, shutting his eyes.

“Yeah,” he squeaks out. “Shit.”

“Yeah, _shit,_ ” Greg mutters under his breath. He lifts his head back up, pushing his forehead into his. “You need to chill out for a moment.”

“I know.”

They stay like that, Nick letting his heat in, breathing in and out. He finds any dregs of anger gone. The haze has left. His hand twitches and he pulls it up, letting it rest on the back of Greg’s neck. When he opens his eyes, D.B. is staring slightly wide-eyed at them.

Nick clears his throat. Greg catches his line of sight, and he turns, seeing D.B. rocking on his heels, watching.

“He knows, which is why he came and got me. So, deal with it.”

Nick feels himself go hot, letting one of Greg’s hands guide his face back toward his. Nick slumps when he finds the tired brown eyes. He knows he’s as exhausted with this case as he is, knows he’s just as mad about it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t tell me. Tell the department. Tell the suspect. Tell Brass. Tell D.B. here.” Greg presses his forehead to his again. “I will deal with your ass about this at home.”

“Yeah.”

Greg sighs shakily, cracking his neck. “You good? We’re almost there, and I have Henry doing the DNA…”

“Go. I’m fine. I’m…good. I’ll grab my things and go.”

“We’ll talk later, okay?” Greg shuts his eyes, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and then pulls back. “I’ll call.”

Nick nods, grabbing his hand as he straightens up. He squeezes it, getting a weak squeeze back.

D.B. nods to Greg as he straightens himself and heads to the door. He grabs the frame, turning back to look at Nick. Nick offers him another nod. When he’s gone, he sighs, leaning over onto his knees. He rubs a hand through his hair, through his beard.

“I fucked up.”

“You did, kid. You did.” D.B. shifts, letting his hands drop to his sides. “Look, we all have our days. And I know there’s been more than one suspect I’d like to personally choke, so thanks for living what we can’t do.”

For the first time in days, Nick lets out a startled laugh.

“But you can’t…you know that.”

“What am I out for?”

“Three days, no pay. If there’s a lawsuit, there’ll be an investigation. An incident report’s already on its way, courtesy of Brass. So, uh. You’ve got a few days to make amends.”

“I’ll get my things.” He stands, shaking. He flexes his fingers. “Thanks, D.B.”

The older man claps Nick on the back. He turns to the officers near the doorway. “No one else is getting killed in here today. We’re letting him go.”

A few of them snicker at Nick as he follows D.B. down the hallway.

“Let’s get some lunch, then, how about that?”

Nick offers him a weak grin. “I’m paying, right?”

“What do you think?”

Three days later, he pops his head into D.B.’s office. The supervisor has his feet up on the desk, file in his lap, tapping his glasses. Nick knocks, seeing him look up and then gesture for him to come in.

“Shut the door.” When Nick’s seated, he changes his position in the chair, righting himself. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

“So, how badly did Greg beat you when you got home?”

Nick grins, shaking his head. “I got a fair enough dressing down. But I spoke to Brass, and everyone else. Made my rounds.”

D.B. nods. “So I’ve heard. Brass is taking it easy on you, thank God. No lawsuit, either; turns out, he _was_ the guy. So, you’re kind of being hailed as a hero here, regardless of your little stunt. Good job on the case, by the way. Sent in commendations for you and Greg.”

Nick bobs his head.

“Thank you.” He shifts. “How did…how did you know?”

D.B.’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. He leans back in the chair, feet appearing back on the desk. “Know what?”

“About…about me and Greg? He wouldn’t tell me.”

D.B. grins. He tilts his head at him, lights reflecting in his glasses. “ _That’s_ what you’re really here about, isn’t it?”

“I just don’t want it getting around-“

D.B. cuts him off. “And it won’t. Trust me, if I hadn’t caught it, I wouldn’t have known about it. But to answer your question, I’m a trained observer. I’ve been doing this a long time. And, I’ll give you guys credit: you keep it under wraps pretty well here. I figured if you were having some kind of meltdown, who better to ask than Greg?”

Nick shifts in the seat, feeling the heat rise in his neck. He palms at the arms of the chair.

“Did one of us slip up?”

“You could say that. A few looks, a few touches, a few…moments I witnessed completely by accident.” Nick’s face is bright red now, he knows it. D.B. taps the corner of his mouth, eyeing him kindly. “Who else knows?”

Nick shrugs. “Sara. Cat might have known. And Hodges…of all people. And if Hodges knows, good chance most people have caught on by now.”

“Squirrelly little guy,” D.B. mutters. “Figures he’d know. But that’s it?”

“And now you.” Nick huffs. “Is this going to be an IA issue? Some kind of…problem?”

“Nah.” He waves a hand, then eyes Nick. He laces his hands together across his chest, tilting his head the other direction. “How long, anyway?”

Nick doesn’t have to think. “Five years.”

A slow smile starts to spread across D.B.’s face. Nick feels suddenly shy, fidgeting. He folds his hands in his lap, wringing his fingers.

“I appreciate it, D.B. I do. I know Greg probably does, too.”

“I’ve spoken with him. He’s a good kid.” He holds his hands out. “You have my word.”

“Thanks, D.B.. I’ll uh…let you get back to…that.” He goes to stand, something tightening in his chest. He goes toward the door, seeing Greg in the hallway. He’s got a file in his hand, flipping pages in it. Nick glances back at D.B. “Where do you want me?”

“With Greg. He’s working on something you might like.”

Nick grins, shaking his head at the vague words. He opens the door, taking careful steps into the hallway. The tightening winds up, and he feels sudden excitement rush through him. He blows out a breath. Greg turns, seeing him. He sends Nick a wide smile, and Nick steels himself, taking quick paces toward him.

He grabs him by the arm, leading him toward an empty section of hallway. He takes a cursory glance around before pressing him up against it. Greg protests softly against his lips, file crushed between them. Nick grins against his mouth, snaking a hand up his side. It takes a moment, and then Greg’s melting, sliding an inch or so down the wall. Nick hooks a finger into the belt loop of his jeans.

“We…we have a case,” Greg manages when he pulls away. His lashes are fluttering, a slow flush working its way up his neck. “What-“

“Love you, G,” Nick murmurs, pressing his forehead into his.

“Love you, too, Nicky.” Greg clears his throat. “But what-“

“Sara and Grissom already did this. Move along, kids,” Hodges mutters as he passes them, flapping a file at them. He’s got a grin on his face, though, shaking his head as he keeps walking.

Nick hears Greg sputter out a laugh before he does the same, kissing him again. He pulls away when he hears a soft coo from a few feet away. He shoots a look over his shoulder, feeling Greg slide back up the wall, fingers drifting along Nick’s chest between them. Sara is standing casually against the wall, hands in the pockets of the blue denim CSI jumpsuit.

“As much as I’d love to stay for the romance, we have a dumpster run.”

“Oh, you’d love to watch,” Greg quips and Nick falls into another fit of giggles.

Sara rolls her eyes, gap-toothed smile on full display. She turns on her heel, flipping them off. “Wheels up in ten.”

Nick catches deep brown eyes, Greg grinning and starting to twitch. He’s bouncing before Nick can stop him and then he’s ducking under him.

“If there’s two of us, we have a better chance of throwing her in the dumpster. C’mon.”

He darts away, off like a shot down the hallway.

All Nick can do is laugh.

And follow him.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come join me in my CSI bullshit among other things on tumblr. 
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlikeregularchickens


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